


I Like You In Glasses

by SnarkyBreeze



Series: You Ruined Everything AU [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: A Plant Wrote This, Adoption, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Light Angst, M/M, Married Life, Post-Canon, Romantic Fluff, Single Parent Katsuki Yuuri, Trans Katsuki Yuuri, Wedding Fluff, aged-down Yuri Plisetsky, do not copy to another site, parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22654585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkyBreeze/pseuds/SnarkyBreeze
Summary: After the Grand Prix Finale, Viktor and Yuuri decided to continue competing, both as a coach/skater team and as competitors in the same division, and together they dominate the rest of the competitive season.  Between a spring wedding, Yuri's juniors debut, and a family that is rapidly outgrowing their St. Petersburg apartment, the newlyweds are starting to discover just how hard it can be to balance work and family.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Series: You Ruined Everything AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1453843
Comments: 18
Kudos: 89





	1. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Branches are bare with a pulse underneath   
> Flowering slowly inside  
> Your hands are warm and my body is wide   
> To hold all the promise of blue-velvet dark and stars

“After all the work we’ve done together. I can’t believe you.”

Viktor sniggers like a child from the highest step of the podium, having just won his sixth consecutive World Championship despite having retired this past season. He’s stunning in the spotlight, but that isn’t news to Yuuri. This is the Viktor Yuuri has always dreamt about, the one whose every angle he had memorized from years of studying videos and photoshoots. Then again, never before has Yuuri seen  _ this _ smile in  _ this _ context, a truly happy Viktor in his element, supported by a full life off the ice as well as back on it.

Yuuri is absolutely incensed that Viktor convinced him to stay on as a competitor only to steal the gold medal that  _ could have been his. _

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you, Yuuri,” Viktor purred, his lips curled around a laugh he’s keeping hidden away for the sake of the cameras. “I won, fair and square.”

“If you think you’re setting a precedent for 2017, you’ll have a rude awakening come fall. You’ve peaked, Nikiforov. I’m coming for you.”

“Promise?” Viktor winks, eliciting an involuntary snort from Christophe on the lowest platform.

The end of the season has been a whirlwind of wedding plans, combined practice, takeout dinners at the rink, and sleepless nights. They knew it would be this way when they made the decision in December to keep on competing. They knew it would be a hellish gambit from Nationals to Four Continents and Europeans to Worlds, especially with Yuuri still settling into the St. Petersburg flat. Nothing could have prepared them for the amount of work it took to dominate the podium as a pair. 

He’s not really mad. How could he be? Up on the highest platform, towering above them in a height boost that he by no means needs, is an imprint of the Vitya who used to steal the breath from Yuuri’s chest. His costume is blood-red and billowing, albeit far more finely-detailed than the dress that inspired it.  _ Wuthering Heights _ was, according to Viktor, the culmination of a decade and a half of putting off his dream programs in order to create routines that were guaranteed wins. Now that he’s returning, he’s done with compromise. He’s skating to campy 1980s pop songs and  _ still _ winning gold medals.

He’s beautiful, he’s unbelievably strong, and if one more season means more opportunities to lose to him, Yuuri will take another silver season.

Not that he’ll ever admit it.

He’s the only one in the world with the power to keep Viktor Nikiforov in check, and he’s going to wield that power fearlessly until his retirement. He’s going to play competitive as long as it keeps that playful smile in his fiance’s eyes.

“Niki, who would have known you had a thing for rivalry?” Christophe says with a smirk. Yuuri’s cheeks sting with the familiar burn of embarrassment, but he keeps face, both for the cameras and for Viktor.

Viktor hums in amusement as the ISU officials make their way across the carpet. “Maybe no one’s gotten close enough to wake that side of me.” 

“You wound me,” Chris pouts. “I was certain we had something special.”

“I’m telling you, don’t get comfortable,” says Yuuri with a laugh just as Chris’ medal is presented. “You begged me to stay and compete, and you’re going to get what you asked for!”

“You’re on,” Viktor challenges.

“Don’t get cocky, Nikiforov.”

“Excuse me, that’s  _ Katsuki-Nikiforov!” _ Viktor says with a grin as Yuuri ducks his head to receive his medal.

“Not until next week— _ Thank you very much, ma’am. _ ”

Chris’ laughter definitely shows through this time, the first break in their half-subdued murmuring, and soon all three champions are cracking up on the podium amid the cheering crowd and flash of the cameras. 

Yuuri’s first season with Viktor Nikiforov is over, and if he could have predicted where he’d be—both in rank and in life—he would have been counted as crazy for sure. Hell, he would have joined in on the counting.

This week, they are world champions alongside one another, having shared the ice with some of their best friends. Eri is spending her first competition week at home with the Katsukis, which means they have a hotel room to themselves. The trip is devoted to one another and the competition and no one else. They have hardly worn a single thing between the two of them once back in their suite. It has been a true paradise, something to savor.

Next week, they will be married in Hasetsu and Eri’s adoption will be finalized, and from then on, all bets are off. Yuuri has no clue what is in store for him once he has everything he’d once dreamed of long ago, back when Eri was still a wriggle in his gut, back when he’d thought his everything was with What’s His Name.

This is so much more than what he thought he could have back then. His face hurts from smiling. He listens to Viktor’s voice, low and resounding, as he sings along to Russia’s national anthem. Almost a year ago, that voice rang in quiet echoes through Hasetsu Ice Castle, bidding Eri  _ “bayu, bayushki bayu,” _ and Yuuri felt the first pangs of an anxious heat he wouldn’t be able to put a name to for months to come. 

* * *

  
  


_ “Love,” _ Viktor rasps, his breaking voice echoing against the shower tiles as Yuuri kisses down his back. “Love you so.”

“Mmnn.”

Yuuri can only growl into the bite of Viktor’s shoulder he’s currently rolling between his teeth. The involuntary sighs escaping Viktor’s chest only amplify the hunger that began roiling low in his abdomen back on the podium. The shower steam is heaven beating against his aching shoulders, and Viktor is an angel glowing pink from the heat of the water and his own flush of arousal.

“We should probably get ready for the banquet...” From the sound of his voice, Viktor can’t even convince himself of this, and the primal thing in Yuuri’s chest burns with envy that Viktor’s mind should be occupied with anything other than his love. A hand gripping the bitten shoulder, Yuuri spins him around and pins him to the wall of the shower, his lips dragging wet heat along Viktor’s jawline.

“Stay,” he pants, unable to control the press of his hips or the trail of his hands. “Let’s stay. We’re not going to lose sponsors anytime soon.” He lets his teeth catch Viktor’s clavicle (the highest point he can reach without craning his neck) and gives thorough attention to the spot as Viktor melts into putty against the tile.

“Yuuri…”

“Stay here with me.”

“We can’t…”

Yuuri whines, biting down hard on Viktor’s chest. “Come on, I want to see you laid out on that bed with nothing but your medal…”

Viktor’s fingers trail up Yuuri’s sides, sending a shiver down his spine despite the warm shower, an exasperated laugh rumbling in his chest. His hands come up to cup Yuuri’s jaw, lifting his chin to meet his eyes.

“I want nothing more,” he says, and Yuuri recognizes the halting sincerity in his eyes as he bows his head to kiss him, soft and tender and breathless under the stream of the water. “If I were only your coach, or perhaps if I skated for someone other than Yakov, God, Yuuri, I would let you take me apart right now.”

Ah, of course. Yakov took Viktor back on strict conditions, more aware than anyone that the undefeated world figure skating champion is almost more trouble than he’s worth. Yuuri knows it, and yet nothing seems as dire as the gravity between them here and now. He groans again, not passing up a chance to pull Viktor’s hips into his. Kneading his fingertips into the pliant muscle of Viktor’s buttocks, he laps up every little pleasurable sound it draws from deep within him.

“A quickie, then? Now or later in a banquet hall restroom is fine, but only one of those options has the potential for scandal.”

“Scandal hasn’t stopped us before.”

Yuuri has tangible proof that his idea appeals to Viktor, and he improves his odds with another kiss, firm and open-mouthed but restrained enough to invite Viktor to chase more.

“You can explain to Yakov,” Viktor breathes, needy and pulling at Yuuri’s lower lip with his teeth.

“We have a week without a baby. Yakov knows what we’re doing.” He’s already dragging Viktor out of the shower, already lost in the fog of insatiable want. The banquet can wait. For them, the banquet is the least important part of this night.

* * *

  
  


Sponsors banquets have greatly improved for Yuuri in the past year. That’s not to say they are any less a duty of great social-emotional expense. Diplomacy isn’t his greatest strength. When a majority of potential benefactors have either seen his drunken exploits in Sochi or the many perceived stunts he and Viktor have pulled over the last year, it’s easy to let his nerves creep up on him as he steps out of the elevator and through the great double doors to the hotel ballroom.

He has friends, at least, and this year, his friends are there alongside him  _ before _ the alcohol has loosened everyone up. Phichit’s rise in the figure skating ranks in the past year has been the greatest enhancement to Yuuri’s competition experiences, relationship with Viktor excluded. No one is ever quite as in tune to Yuuri’s wavelength as his best friend, and yet Phichit is fearless in dragging Yuuri (kicking and screaming, in most cases) out of his comfort zone and into experiences he’d never let himself have if left to his own devices.

Phichit was always the friend in Detroit who, for better or for worse, kept Yuuri at parties long after his first, second,  _ fifth _ impulse to leave. They’ve had their share of spats about the whole thing, both stubborn in their own right and neither of them particularly subtle about their feelings. Phichit would not abide a night cut short by an insufferable homebody, and Yuuri was nothing if not vocal about his desire to leave once they arrived.

But, waiting around for the night to end at whatever house party or campus bash or night on the town, Yuuri had met his fair share of interesting people. Hell, he can practically attribute all of the major changes in his life—the relationship that led to the birth of Eri and his professional arrangement with Viktor, particularly—to social events Phichit had pushed him into.

He’s grateful, all the undue stress and awkwardness aside. All the having to apologetically explain away the inevitable exploits of his own personal Mr. Hyde. It was all thanks to Phichit, for better or for worse.

These days, he leans much more in favor of “for better.”

“Okay! Tell me the plan, my dearest, darlingest groom-to-be,” Phichit sings, shoving a glass of champagne into Yuuri’s hand. “What are we doing?”

Yuuri sniffs the drink tentatively. It’s fairly reminiscent of bad decisions and worse self-esteem. Yuuri makes a point of concentrating on the positives of the present as he lets his first dry, sour sip sparkle down the back of his tongue and settle, warm and golden, in his stomach.

He’s going to get drunk tonight. That’s the plan, and Phichit knows it. 

It’s why he was so adamant about getting a last little bit of loving in with Viktor before the banquet. The plan for tonight, beyond their usual game of rubbing elbows with the sponsors of the figure skating world and creating a few Instagrammable moments to pad Phichit’s Personal Brand™, is to celebrate the impending wedding with a couple of bachelor’s parties which, at Chris’ and Phichit’s insistence, are deliberately separate. They’d party together for as short a time as they could manage before splintering off and letting their friends have their way.

Yuuri anticipates Phichit won’t let up until he’s shitfaced and willing to engage in some classic debauchery, and that the rest of his stay in Helsinki will be spent hung-over and hung up over travel arrangements.

He’s already FaceTimed with his mom and Eri, already warned that he wouldn’t be in control of his life for at least another day, and confirmed plans to meet at the train station later on. He is ready to put his world in Phichit’s hands. If he only allows his best friend one last time to completely steamroll his plans into something more enjoyable and social than he was capable of on his own, this would be it. Phichit, his best man, has planned a bachelor’s party “beyond anything you could possibly imagine”, and Yuuri is going to go with it. So much of his happiness has been a result of this very thing. He’s given himself the time to mentally prepare. He knows better than to try and contrive any sort of expectations. For once, he’s excited to go with Phichit’s flow.

“I have to see who’s here from Mizuno, and then Viktor wants me to talk to his Nike guy, which I don’t want to do, but he’s pretty sure he can get me a deal there…” He sips his champagne a little faster than he’d originally intended. “Those are the two most important talks I have, and then I think there are one or two press correspondents I promised some time to? Morooka, for one, and…”

He swallows hard as Phichit presses another flute into his palm with a raise of the eyebrows.

“This… This is starting now, huh?”

“This is starting now,” Phichit says with a grin. “I want to see you on your baddest behavior.”

“Phich…”

“Okay. Your best for the sponsors. Get your good press.” Phichit downs his own glass of champagne, gesturing for Yuuri to do the same. “But I promise your conversations will be one hundred times more interesting with a little bit of lube to get things going!”

“Gross.”

Phichit shrugs, feigned confusion on his face, and gives Yuuri a pat on the back. “As soon as you accomplish all you feel obligated to accomplish, come get me. Dance a little too, if you think of it. In fact, as your Instagram manager, I insist upon it.” He waves his phone in Yuuri’s face. “Fans love banquet candids. And if you’re going to keep being the best, you have to start catering to fans.”

“Viktor is the best,” Yuuri reminds him through a sip of champagne. “Gold.”

Phichit snorts. “With that attitude, he is,” he muses, his eyes scanning the ballroom. “Now I have to go find that Swiss hunk of a bronze medalist and convince him that he’s missing some Thai in his whole polyam arrangement.”

Yuuri smiles. He’s been waiting for Phichit to admit that he’s had eyes on Christophe, but he was always so scared of creating undue tension by suggesting some kind of chemistry that isn’t there.

He instantly finds Morooka and dives into a conversation on blending competition, professional collaboration, and romance in his relationship with Viktor.

“Would it be presumptuous to say that all of your success is thanks to him?” Morooka asks, twirling his audio recorder awkwardly in his hands.

There was a point where Yuuri would have said that. It was short-lived but marvelous, a span of a few weeks during the summer when he was advancing beyond what he thought he was capable of. Viktor refused to accept his own perceived shortcomings, and Yuuri was struck with the realization that he’d never felt so supported in his life.

But he said it himself at the start of the season. If it wasn’t for Viktor, he wouldn’t have realized that all this time he’s been closed off to a wider structure of support from his friends and family. It has always been there. Long before Yuuri was willing to open his eyes to the love that surrounded him, he was always implicitly accepted and validated by those around him. Minako and Yuuko fought for him when he didn’t know how to be himself. His family accepted him without question or care. Phichit… God, he loves Phichit so much. The warmth of appreciation bubbles up in his chest as he basks in the feeling.

Or maybe that’s the champagne.

He sets his empty glass on the table and lifts his glasses to rest on his head. “I think that does a great disservice to everyone who has been there for me from the beginning,” he says, tracing shapes in the ring the wine glass leaves on the table where they stand. “My family… and I don’t mean strictly biological… they’ve been with me since my start in the senior division. Some since juniors! Well, even you, Morooka-san! I remember you from day one, and your cheers have urged me on ever since!”

Morooka seems a little taken aback at the bold confession, but a smile blooms across his face all the same.

“You have always had Japan’s support, through it all,” he promises. “But things have been different since you met Viktor. What changed?”

It’s so embarrassing how excited he gets every time Morooka mentions Viktor. For a while, last year, he was adamant that his success was meant to transcend Viktor’s influence, to propel him into a creature beyond what people would associate with his coach.

But they’re celebrating their life together next week. They’re establishing themselves as a pair, as a team, and Yuuri can’t pretend that he doesn’t want everyone to know that  _ he alone _ is Viktor’s. He does his best to be coy, but he knows he’s about to spill more than the truth just like he did on NHK.

“You know, I was beyond low at the end of last season,” he hums. “I… When Viktor came to Hasetsu, my daughter wasn’t even a year old. I was still recovering from surgery on top of surgery, and I was really underestimating myself because of it. I was a single parent living a continent away from home. No matter how much support you have, it’s hard to do that and not feel alone. I just think… When he showed up at my door, he was exactly what I needed at that time. And once I realized I wasn’t alone, it was easy to realize to what extent that was true. Viktor helped me realize that I had put walls around myself and my baby. And while that was effective in keeping us safe, it kept us from moving or connecting. When the walls came down, I felt really free.”

Morooka gapes at him for a second, and Yuuri knows why. For someone he’s covered for a decade now, Yuuri has never given Morooka much to work with in interviews. He’s always been humble and soft-spoken to the extent of denying his success. To so openly acknowledge what people have been trying to tell him for years… Well, Yuuri can imagine it’s jarring.

“That… is beautiful.” It takes the reporter a moment to gather himself, seemingly overcome with emotion, so Yuuri takes the opportunity to bother a passing hotel staff for a fresh glass of champagne.

“I mean it, I’m really grateful,” he urges.

Morooka laughs at that, although Yuuri isn’t really sure what’s funny. “Of course, Yuuri-kun,” he sighs, clapping a hand down on Yuuri’s shoulder. “It is amazing how far you’ve come. I think I have to ask though, before I return you to your evening. If I don’t ask what everyone is wondering, we’ll both be in trouble with readers.”

“What?”

“What came first— _ dating or skating?” _ He asks the question in singsong English, his expression goofy but expectant. Yuuri can’t help but laugh; it’s not like he doesn’t know it’s a hot topic among those who actually follow what goes on in the figure skating world, but it is still so baffling to him that anyone would be interested in his personal life like this. It’s even more baffling that more and more, he’s finding himself receptive to that interest.

(He can’t pretend like these wouldn’t be the things he’d be scouring the web for if Viktor was involved with some other skater in this way. He’s done it before. He’s not sure if his husband has caught on to just how much of a fanboy he really is, but…)

(Did he just subconsciously refer to Viktor as his husband? It feels naughty more than anything else, like sticking your finger into the icing on top of your birthday cake before the party has even started. It’s not that much longer; if he makes an eager slip-up here and there, who can blame him?)

He takes a moment, trying, first of all, to determine just when exactly either of them discovered their feelings and just when exactly they became known. But before he can open his mouth to reply, a hand finds his waist and Viktor’s voice rumbles warmth against his back.

“My intention was always to marry him, Morooka-san; it just so happened that skating together was easier to arrange.”

Morooka looks caught somewhere between embarrassed and ecstatic. “Coach Viktor!” he practically gasps, bowing shortly before shaking Viktor’s hand.

Yuuri takes the opportunity to melt back into Viktor’s chest, giving in to the added gravity of two glasses of champagne and letting his head fall heavy onto Viktor’s shoulder. The conversation is brief and congenial after that, full of Viktor and Yuuri sheepishly diffusing one another’s giddy, giggly statements. Once Morooka takes his leave, and before Yuuri can invoke the power of Skater Conduct, Viktor pulls him to the periphery, out of earshot of other guest, his hand sneaking under the back of Yuuri’s jacket suggestively.

“Men’s room. No longer than five minutes,” he growls, pulling Yuuri in by the small of his back and kissing him just below his ear. It’s Yuuri’s weak spot; fire blooms in his chest and much lower than that as an icy shiver clubs his spine. For a moment, it’s pure heat, Viktor’s thirst on full display and Yuuri far too successively too it, but as quickly as they lose control they reign it back in. Yuuri grounds himself with a peck on the lips and a quick glance around to make sure they weren’t being watched too closely.

“It might be our last chance before going home,” Viktor whispers. “Five minutes?”

There doesn’t seem to be eyes on them, and Yuuri can’t help but consider that he’s truly living his adolescent dreams. Viktor’s face is desperate and pouting and Viktor’s hands are relentlessly searching, and if weighed against the prospect of wandering out and finding another sponsor to butter up…

“Ah, what the hell.”

Five minutes ends up becoming ten. They’re easily the best ten minutes of the entire banquet.

* * *

  
  


The rest of the evening goes pretty much as planned, with the unignorable addition of several more makeout sessions whenever they can manage. Yuuri sets up a meeting in St. Petersburg for later that summer to renegotiate his deal with Mizuno and sign a few contracts for their upcoming line. It’s a splendid sort of feeling, like being told ‘your check is in the mail’, and Yuuri is surprised to find himself subject to that feeling over and over again with each new contact he speaks to that night.

By the time Phichit drags him by his collar out to the elevators, Yuuri has danced with just about every competitor in the sport, and accepted three offers for commercial spots during the 2018 Olympics.

This life feels so different to what he believed he could have. Already, as he falls into Phichit’s arms in the elevator, he can feel himself starting to tear up.

“Ooh, stay there,” Phichit says with a quick laugh. Yuuri can feel him fall naturally into his selfie angle, knows that he’s being featured as he tries to calm to beating of his heart, but he doesn’t do anything to stop it. “I’m going to tell hubby you’re lost in the sauce before we’ve even started.”

_ “Noo, _ Peaches, he’ll worry,” Yuuri whines. He doesn’t want to overhaul their entire night just because he can’t handle himself; he  _ definitely _ doesn’t want Viktor to know he’s anything other than carefree and candid. That was the whole reason they’d proposed the no contact rule, the whole reason they’d said their goodbyes for the night and vowed to recount  _ everything _ the next morning at brunch.

So Yuuri straightens, sniffing back any threat of overwhelming emotions, and starts to prepare himself for the night to come.

“Are we going out?” he asks, nuzzling into Phichit’s shoulder as the elevator jerks to a halt.

“You’re drunk already,” Phichit giggles. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

“S’not an answer,” Yuuri whines. “Will there be strippers? Do I have to get a lap dance?” He backs into the hallway, totally aware that his best friend is—true to his nature—filming already.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, baby.”

“Who’s coming? Is Chris coming? He wouldn’t be, right? He’d be with Vitya… but… what if he does? Peach, you’re not planning to surprise me, are you?”

Phichit lowers his phone and reaches out to smooth back his hair. It’s a soothing feeling, reminiscent of the way he used to comfort Yuuri those helpless nights in their Detroit apartment. The soft scratch of manicured nails against his scalp takes Yuuri right back to Pregnant Papa spa nights and breakup recovery movie marathons. 

“Tonight is about you and only you,” Phichit ensured. “If you want a stripper, I can definitely call one, but I tried to plan a bachelor party suited for the Yuuri I know and love.”

He pockets his phone and pulls out a key card in its place, ushering a still-sniffling Yuuri inside with a calm yet conspiratorial air.

“If you’re going to surprise me, please don’t jump out,” Yuuri calls into the seemingly-empty space. “I’m very vulnerable right now and I  _ will _ cry.” He knows how this kind of thing goes. He knows Phichit isn’t capable of going any less than large when it comes to parties. He braces himself for the sudden barrage of sound and stimulation, the celebratory shout, maybe the pop of confetti poppers…

But they never come. 

Instead, Phichit switches on the lights to reveal a room completely rearranged. The beds are pushed aside and the reclining chairs are grouped together in the middle, both facing the television, both flanking a table full of oils and oats and all sorts of interesting-looking goodies. Steam swirls and dances above two large wash basins on the floor, and as the fragrance starts to waft their way, Yuuri picks up hints of jasmine, lavender, and the stringent mineral smell of sea salt. The room is littered with flowers, photos, craft supplies, and chocolate-covered fruit, and a tower of DVDs looms in front of the television. It is a dream come true, welcoming in the way it instantly calms Yuuri’s mind.

“Peach… is this…?”

“This is it,” Phichit confirms. “Welcome to your bachelor spa.”

Dumbfounded, Yuuri wanders further into the room. “Just you and me?” he asks hopefully.

“Just me and you, unless you would like me to invite anyone else up.”

Yuuri picks through the stack of DVDs, shaking his head excitedly. It’s full of his favorite action films, a couple anime titles, and a couple musicals, but not a single “Skater and the King” film in sight.

The night is so perfect that Yuuri ends up crying for most of it. They’re happy tears, and he doesn’t even need to assure Phichit of this: his best friend has already prepared tissue boxes and extra chocolate for just such a case. They cry together as they look back at the last five years of their lives.

“I can’t believe you managed all this during Worlds,” Yuuri cries into his sleeve as Phichit shoves wads of cotton between his toes. “I can’t believe everything you’ve done for me, Peach. I can’t believe I get to have this.”

“Get to have what? A pedicure?” Phichit snarks. “Honey, I wish you would have let me touch those swollen feet of yours when you were pregnant, but—”

He’s cut off by another wave of tears as Yuuri wails into a fistful of tissues. 

“How could I be so lucky?” he said with a hiccough. The noises his congested airways make as he speaks are less than flattering, but it’s clear Phichit doesn’t care. “You’ve been with me since Drew—since  _ before _ Drew—and… I don’t know… I don’t know what I’m saying, Phichit. I just don’t think I deserve you  _ and _ Eri  _ and _ Vitya.”

At that, Phichit put down his materials and climbed up into the recliner to scoop Yuuri up into a hug. Tears of his own sparkled at the corner of his eyes. Yuuri marveled at how he was able to cry with composure when the slightest hint of emotion had him choking and heaving like a little child.

“Yuuri, Yuuri, beautiful Yuuri,” Phichit cooed as he lost his perch and slid into Yuuri’s lap. “You are the most precious angel that God could ever think to grace upon this world. You deserve  _ everything, _ and you especially deserve the love that surrounds you. Everyone you touch is held captive, but not against their will. You know that, right? Please tell me you know how special you are.”

Yuuri knows, but he doesn’t believe it. He feels it, but he questions it. He squeezes Phichit into him with a little sob, and together they dissolve into a teary puddle, settling in to watch a stupid superhero movie with lots of explosions.

In the morning, when Yuuri picks out the photos he’s willing to allow Phichit to post to social media, his followers and fans will wake up to pictures documenting manicures, pedicures, homemade face masks, and hours of meticulously crafting old glass jars, jute twine, and yellowing book pages into wedding decorations. Everything is soft lamplight and relaxing piano music, everything is soft giggles and reminiscing. There’s a photo of Yuuri with an aloe-green face mask sipping champagne through a straw, a half-eaten chocolate strawberry in his hand. His smile is unhurried and full, even if his eyes are a bit teary. There are Cabaret singalong videos, “best friend tears” selfies, and manicure-drying dance cams. 

In the very last video of the night (that Yuuri will allow on Instagram, at least), Phichit’s hand, nails freshly painted, holds up a bottle of whipped-cream-flavored vodka in the foreground, while Yuuri, losing his precious little mind in the background, yells, “Wait! Can we do  _ karaoke!?” _

That video will be posted with the caption, “Phase 2 begins…” in glowing green letters.

No videos of Phase 2 will make it past Yuuri’s strict vetting process.


	2. the sun goes down (and the world goes dancing)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it's more, maybe you're all I ever waited for.  
> After all the endless nights when I wished I could still cry...

“What does ‘Lost in the sauce’ mean?”

Viktor trots behind Chris to the elevators, grateful at least that he’s nearing escape from his suit and the stifling atmosphere of the sponsors’ banquet. If only the stars in his eyes hadn’t blinded him to the memory of just how dull these networking events are. He missed the thrill of the ice, the intense drive of keeping his standing until the very last competition, but he certainly hadn’t missed his bittersweet relationship with fame. If not for Yuuri popping up at his side to drag him off and kiss away his clouded thoughts, Viktor is sure the telltale numb buzz of isolation would have crept around the corners of his consciousness, torn him from his conscious self and left the smiling, vacant shell that had been left at the end of last season.

But he’s here tonight. He’s had so much more to think and talk about than just  _ himself, _ than just  _ gold: _ he had Yuuri. Even with Viktor’s surprise mid-season return, even with his climb back to the top, he found himself talking about his fiance to the press more often than anything, singing his praise for the unstoppable force they’d cultivated together.

They danced together, and this time Yuuri will remember it. This time, Viktor knows Yuuri wanted him before the champagne had its way, and for more than the pretty smile he knows how to do when cameras are present.

That’s pretty cool, he decides as he rewinds a video from Phichit for the second time. This time last year, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be lucky enough to find the vulnerability he needed to survive.

“I think in this case, I suppose it means your fiance is overcome with feeling,” Chris ponders, peering down over his shoulder. “Either that or Phichit has deemed him too drunk to even begin.”

“It’ll certainly be the first, knowing them both,” Viktor chuckles. “Are you going to give me an idea of what to expect tonight, or should I expect to be surprised?”

“Let yourself be surprised,  _ mon cherie, _ but don’t wait expectantly. I didn’t exactly plan out our evening.”

“Surely you’re joking.”

Chris laughs as the door opens to the skaters’ block. “I assure you I’m not,” he purrs, whisking out into the hall. “I did some research, I considered it, but everything that designates a ‘bachelor party’ seemed so heteronormative and unseemly that I thought we could skip the formalities and just explore the club scene.”

“God, that actually sounds perfect,” Viktor sighs. “I can’t believe I expected anything else from you.”

“Georgi is coming, as is Mila and her Italian girlfriend—”

“Sara.”

_ “Sara,” _ Christophe confirms. “And I told her insufferable heel of a brother that his best friend would look after her, otherwise he was going to try and bring his nasty controlling attitude into our celebration of your clandestine love.” He unlocks his door and they rush inside to change; Viktor’s clothes are already waiting on a hanger in the closet, just in case Yuuri decided to go back to their suite. It’s supposed to be strictly no-contact, although Viktor knows it’s anyone’s guess whether he’ll be the first to break, or whether it will be Yuuri.

“And no chance of unexpected meetings?”

“With Michele? There’s always a chance.” Chris is stark naked before Viktor has a chance to excuse himself to the bathroom. It’s not shocking anymore; they’ve been friends long enough to have lost grasp of whatever scruples may still linger between them. “If you’re talking about Yuuri’s plans, you needn’t worry. According to Phichit, they’re enjoying a quiet night in.”

God, Viktor will never compare to Phichit. How do people exist in this world that are so naturally in tune with others’ sensibilities? The tension that Viktor never would have admitted was building between his shoulder blades eases slightly, and in its place a wave of energized excitement washes over him.

“Phichit,” he hums. “He must have told you that when you two were glued together on the dance floor this evening.”

The noise Christophe makes in response is aloof and unaffected. When he saunters back into view, his suit has been replaced with impeccably-tailored linen trousers and an open-front shirt. “He’s delicious.”

“Anything serious there?” Viktor offers.

“I suppose we’ll see. Daddy Mas is a little old for him, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have my fun.”

Viktor laughs, scrolling through Phichit’s messages once more while Chris fusses with hairspray and lip gloss. “As long as you realize what you’re getting into.”

Chris’ eyes gleam as he steps out into the hall, bomber jacket tossed carefree over one shoulder. “Oh, I have no clue what I’m getting into,” he says with a grin. “Don’t spoil it for me, okay?”

Their first stop seems to be pretty standard nightclub fare. There’s a DJ no one has ever heard of churning out remixes of the latest hits. The floor is full enough to get lost on, and after a round of shots and some neon pink thing that Georgi insists Viktor try, getting lost seems like a pretty attractive option. The drink is good, slightly sour with an effervescent sweetness that does anything but weigh him down, and pretty soon Viktor has Chris by the wrist and is dragging him toward the middle of the floor.

It’s been years since Viktor has really, actually gone out to dance with friends. There was a time that every competition meant a night or two out with fellow skaters, a time when Viktor found it well worth it to whip up half-baked apologies to Yakov, mid-hangover, for whatever trouble he might have gotten into the night before.

He’s considered asking Yuuri to go out to the club with him, particularly after Barcelona when he had family available to watch the baby, but it didn’t take long to realize that the close quarters, the loud music, and the heat of pulsating bodies is too much for his reserved fiance. Yuuri can barely hold it together at a family party at home. The revelation was nice, actually. It’s comforting to know that for all the time spent clinging to one another, they were still their own, separate selves. 

Viktor loves to dance. It all comes flooding back to him as he shoulders his way out onto the floor, the rumbling bassline of a half-familiar song reverberating in the pit of his stomach. There’s something freeing about the anonymity of a nightclub dance floor, the way you lose yourself to the beat and let yourself be taken away into a world where sound and light and sugar-sweet alcohol swirl together in an ethereal, hypnotic haze. He’s so used to distancing himself, and yet here he’s so close to so many people that the air is thick and hot, the smell of sweat and beer and cologne their own dizzying drug.

Pretty soon the beat changes; something a little more sultry and driving blasts through the speakers, and Viktor can feel the bonds of his daily life shaking loose from his stiff limbs. Chris and Georgi stay close, although each of them has already found a partner, each turning their attention elsewhere, lost in their own heavy haze. It’s exciting to watch; Chris’ finely-honed seduction skills are out in full force tonight, an aura as pink and effervescent as the drink they’d just downed radiating all around their corner of the dance floor and drawing in attention from all sides. It’s a specialty of his, a magnetism that he’s been using to give an edge to his skates for years now. Viktor loves him to pieces for it, although it’s hard not to be envious of the ease with which he draws in eyes, hands, whatever he wants. He doesn’t ever put on the appearance of having to think too hard about it. He’s the cheese  _ and _ the trap. Viktor has never found it that easy to put himself out there without putting on airs.

Ironically, Chris is one of the only people who caught on to Viktor’s game early enough to force his guard down. Yuuri is the other.

By the time Mila and Sara arrive, Emil’s luminous face bobbing cheerily behind them, Chris has disappeared and Viktor watches Georgi play a sort of step-forward, step-back game with his dance partner. Every time he steps forward, the woman steps back, and somehow the message is lost on him. Mila is on him and chasing him away from the poor girl in an instant, leaving Viktor thankful he didn’t have to resort to stepping in himself.

“Hey, she was interested in me,” Georgi spews in heated Russian on his way to the bar.

Mila tosses her hair in his direction and flashes a cheeky smile. “She didn’t seem so interested in your inability to match her pace,” she says matter-of-factly. “Buy me a drink and I’ll find you someone who can keep up with you.”

Two drinks for Mila and one failed matchmaking attempt later, Christophe re-emerges from the depths of the club and suggests they make their way to wherever the night plans on taking them next. It goes this way for a few hours. They show up, they drink, they dance, Georgi grows a degree more sullen with each dance that doesn’t end in true love, and Viktor finds himself having fun. He’s enjoying himself. Dancing  _ is _ enjoyable, after all, and something he’s done with more or less these same people many times before.

He just wishes Yuuri was there with him.

He can’t be ungrateful. After all, the attention is still largely on him. Everyone is talking about the wedding and the adoption and the rest of Viktor’s life, and he hasn’t paid for a single drink. He can’t ignore that his friends have put together the perfect celebration of his final days of bachelorhood.

But at a certain point, he still finds himself dancing alone when no one else in the party is. Mila is sandwiched in between Sara and Emil and Christophe and Georgi preoccupied with their own interests. Viktor is left to hover just on the periphery of everyone else on the dance floor, checking his phone occasionally to catch a glimpse of whatever debauchery is bound to be happening back at the hotel.

Their fourth club takes up the top five floors of a tall and unremarkable building not far from the hotel. The line is long, but as they stand nearby and debate on whether waiting would be more beneficial than moving on, the doorman waves them over.

“Hey. Hey! Viktor Nikiforov! You’re Viktor Nikiforov, right?”

Gracious smile, camera-ready, instant script-building. He’ll introduce his fellow skaters first. Offer a selfie. Thank the man for his support. Then get back in line. He’s deep in publicity mode before he even manages to realize that Emil has already bounded up to the velvet rope.

“It’s Viktor’s bachelor party!” He turns and points as if the man doesn’t know  _ exactly _ who he’s talking about. “He won gold tonight at Worlds, and he’s getting married next week in Japan!”

There’s something to be said here about best-laid plans, but Viktor is handed a wristband and pushed into an elevator to the roof faster than he can come up with it. As they make their slow ascent, Georgi leans against the wall next to him with a soft  _ thud, _ his face long and forlorn as though he’s endured a lifetime of failed pickup attempts.

“You’re a lucky man to find love in this barren and hopeless world,” he says slowly, his voice dropping to a sort of somber darkness that isn’t really conducive to the atmosphere they’ve been keeping tonight. “I hope you find a way to make it work, Vitya. Love is such a fickle friend.”

“Well, Goga’s drunk,” Mila snickers. “Don’t worry, dark prince, you’ll find your sleeping beauty.”

“An awfully predatory thing to suggest,” Chris murmurs. “Popovich, let’s keep the tone light. It’s Niki’s night, after all.”

“Ah yes,” Georgi sighs, letting his head fall light against Viktor’s shoulder and putting a little more weight into him than Viktor can manage to hold. “I suppose Vitya’s love is the only love that matters.”

“Tonight it is,” Sara says with refreshing bluntness. “Come on, let’s just go and have fun. Dance with Viktor! He doesn’t have his beau to keep him company, anyway.”

And that’s how Viktor ends up in the corner at his own bachelor party, listening to Georgi moan about love and loss.

“Fate smiles upon you and spreads its arms and unveils an entire life just waiting to be had, and Vitya, you never let go of it,” he cries, his once-exquisite eyeliner now running down his cheeks in a way that can only be described as cartoonish. “You take hold and you devote your life to protecting it, because a life without love is not a life worth living.”

The aphorisms go on much longer than Viktor is prepared to endure. He loves Georgi. He’s been the one constant in Viktor’s career besides Yakov, and even when the whirlwind of celebrity caught up with Viktor and alienated him from many of his teammates and rinkmates… Well, Georgi was just like him. Their eyes remained fixed on themselves and their own work. Competition was with self. Where others fell was their own business.

When the tears start, Viktor knows the night is done. They’ve been at it for a few hours now, and his past year being what it was, his stamina has diminished considerably. He’s almost thankful he has the excuse to escape back to the hotel.

“Goga, this is embarrassing.” He moans in spite of himself, the exhaustion of the day catching up with him suddenly and all at once. It doesn’t take much effort at all to get Georgi moving. An arm around his middle and the slightest disruption of balance has Georgi stumbling along to his lead, his breath feverish and sour against the collar of Viktor’s shirt.

Chris’ face is one of incredulous amusement as he catches sight of their approach. “I see someone’s had a little too much fun,” he says with a coy laugh. “Shall I call a car?”

“No need, I’ll take him back,” Viktor replies, persevering against his best friend’s injured expression. “Thank you for the dancing. I really needed it, Jackie.”

He turns to go, shifting his weight to counter Georgi’s, but Chris’ hand on his shoulder stops him.

“Let me get a car. We’ll all go back together.”

“Chris, it’s fine. Let me—”

“There.” A warning flash of hazel eyes and a ping from Chris’ phone is enough to shut down the conversation. “They’ll be here in two minutes. How blessed you are to have a friend offer his help, if only you’d accept it every once in a while.”

“Thank you, Chris,” Viktor murmurs sheepishly. “I cannot thank you enough.”

“Yeah, just remember this when you’re caught between a husband and eight kids.”

“What!? Eig—” Viktor stammers, fumbling with Georgi. Chris runs ahead to the elevators before he can come up with a rebuttal.

Chris is grinning with endless mirth by the time they make it into the cramped little lift cab. “I know the house you grew up in, Niki. You’ll have a litter by your first anniversary.”

“Bullshit.” Viktor scoffs, leaning his own weight against the cool metal wall and propping Georgi up in the corner. “After a season of coaching and competing? Against my own husband? Bullshit.”

Chris responds with a knowing smile, but doesn’t push it. They’re relatively quiet for the short rideshare back to the hotel, save for idle mutters in French as they pass the time on their phones.

“Ah, here, looks like your betrothed has had his share tonight as well.”

The video playing on loop from Chris’ phone is loud, and 100% of the raucous activity appears to be coming from Yuuri, Phichit’s idle hands showing off a bottle of flavored liquor in front of him. 

“Wait, we can do  _ karaoke!? _ Peach, this is the greatest thing you’ve ever done for me! There is nothing I could ever do to repay you! I’m renaming my daughter Phichit, and I’m teaching her Thai, and every skate I do for the rest of my career will be to the Skater and the King, and all of my students will do them, and Vitya will do them too! I’m going to sing Shakira!”

With the sudden ache of someone whose home is so close and so far away, Viktor laughs a quiet laugh and replays the video. The space between him and Yuuri tightens, pulls at his chest as if it could yank him right out of his seat and through the night back to the hotel if he let it. 

He’s had fun. But the smell of stale alcohol is inescapable in the tiny confines of the car, and the ache in his muscles is becoming more than he can bear. So soon—so, so soon, he’ll be back with Yuuri under flannel sheets, drifting away into the last luxurious hours of their Worlds vacation.

And what comes after is by no means undesirable, either. He misses Eri more than he’s willing to think about, lest he get emotional in front of Christophe. He misses Makkachin. Besides, going back to Hasetsu only brings him closer to the day it all becomes real.

Yuuri and Eri. His family. The very embodiment of his life and love. It’s less than a week now until he can say the words he’s been tripping over for months, the ones that wait eagerly on the tip of his tongue:

“My husband. My daughter.”

It’s more than he can fathom, enough so that when the car stops and Chris drags Georgi out onto the walkway at the hotel’s entrance, he has to give Viktor a shake to bring him back to present.

“Niki, help me get him upstairs. I think he’s asleep.”

* * *

  
  


In contrast to the videos he’s been receiving all night, there is no blaring music or action-filled movie soundtrack coming from Phichit’s hotel room when Viktor arrives. His head swims as he waits outside the door; he didn’t think to check the time at any point until they returned, and now, at nearing three in the morning, he feels about ready to drop on the spot.

When the door opens, Phichit is clearly faded, his eyelids drooping as he silently waves Viktor inside.

The room, despite the wild escapades that it so recently contained, looks relatively tidy. The lamps are on but dimmed, and soft, ambient noises are coming from the speakers of a black-screened television.

“He’s bathroom,” Phichit mumbles, haphazardly filling a glass with bottled water and fishing a few crackers from a box on the table. “I’m go help him.”

If Phichit is this far gone, it’s hard to imagine, for the few short steps it takes to get there, what can be expected in the bathroom. As Viktor nears, he somehow still expects Yuuri’s usual drunken charisma and excitement. Maybe he’s becoming hard to contain? Maybe he’s moved his all-eyes-on-me stage to the shower, since it’s common knowledge that alcohol has a phobic effect on Yuuri’s clothing. The more he drinks, the more comes falling off his perfect, gorgeous frame.

For the most part, that second bit is right. For all the statements that can be said about the bright-red spill of a person sprawled out across the tiled floor, ‘he probably likes to wear clothes’ isn’t one of them.

“I put a towel over his… you know…” Phichit drops to the floor next to Yuuri and places the glass of water a little too close to his flushed and splotchy face. “...his butt.”

Viktor snorts. “Peach, why don’t you get yourself some water and go to bed?” he offers. “You’ve done so much. I can take it from here.”

“Mm,” Phichit says, stuffing the crackers in his mouth and immediately washing them down with the water he brought for Yuuri. “Yeah ok. Goodnight baby Yuuri, I love you sweet darling.”

It takes a bit of awkward maneuvering for Phichit to take his leave, mainly because he insists on crawling along the floor like a toddler, water sloshing over his hand with each slide forward and cracker crumbs spilling down his chin. Viktor can hear him stumbling through the hotel room as he brings himself down to Yuuri’s side.

“My Yuuri…” Viktor hums, brushing fingers feather-light along Yuuri’s bare shoulder. The skin is hot and sticky beneath his fingertips. “Are you awake?”

“No,” Yuuri croaks, his cheek peeling off the white tile as though it had been rubber cemented there. “Sleep.”

With a chuckle, Viktor settles back against the doorframe. “That’s fine. You sleep.”

“Yeah, I slee— _ oh…” _

He moves faster than Viktor thinks he should be able to in his state, but it’s a good thing, considering within a fraction of a second he completely empties his stomach into the toilet bowl, his back arched as each miserable wretch seizes his body and tears the most pitiful noises from his throat.

“I thought it was done!” Yuuri cries, his voice amplified and distorted from the toilet bowl as his knuckles clutching white against the sides keep him upright. “I hate it!”

“I can imagine,” Viktor says. He wants to go over and help, but his stomach isn’t feeling its strongest either, and he opts to just rest his heavy head against the doorframe and let his ankle brush consolingly against his fiance’s. “Do you need some water?”

“Mmmm,” Yuuri groans. Viktor isn’t sure if that’s a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. He hoists himself up and fills one of the bathroom sink glasses anyway.

Yuuri is a bleary-eyed mess when he turns around to accept the water, his vision clearly more than a little unfocused as he gropes around in the general vicinity of Viktor’s hand. It’s endearing more than anything else, although Viktor has half a mind to shake Phichit awake and… and what, scold him? No, that would be less than appropriate. Phichit isn’t Yuuri’s keeper. He isn’t a caregiver or a parent, he’s a friend doing what friends do best. 

It’s not a huge deal. Viktor is just… he realizes there is so much he wants to protect Yuuri from. Illness, discomfort, vulnerability. It’s not all in his control. He can’t just always prevent these little, funny circumstances.

So as Yuuri drops his head back into the toilet and another wave of sickness takes over his body, Viktor draws a bath. Even just the steam is soothing; the humid air is warm and refreshing all the way down into Viktor’s chest. He can feel his shoulders start to soften as he swims through the sultry air back to his love.

“Dearest, why don’t we get you cleaned up and go to bed?” he asks, keeping his voice even and soft.

“I showered with Vitya.”

Viktor chuckles again. “Yes, I know, darling, but after a night of dancing and karaoke, I think a bath would make you feel better. Come. Come here…”

Helping Yuuri to his feet is a difficult task, especially since Viktor’s balance centers are a little impaired themselves. Somehow, they both manage to climb to a semi-standing position, and once Viktor seems to have found his footing, he hoists Yuuri up and into the bath, the untidy motion causing the water to slosh up the side of the tub.

“A bath with Vitya,” Yuuri slurs, he head bobbing in front of him as Viktor wets a luxuriously soft washcloth. “Could you imagine? I don’t even have to imagine anymore. I get to bathe with Vitya whenever I want. He is so handsome and… and…” His hands come up to hide his face as a giggle bubbles up from inside him. “Peach, he’s even better than I imagined. In every way. _ ” _

God, that feels good.

“I love him so much. When he skates, it’s Fantasy on Ice in my stomach, and when he looks at me I feel handsome… I love my Vitya so much.”

Viktor can’t help the little, private smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth, except to chew eagerly at its edges at this glimpse of the honesty that Yuuri so rarely offers. He wants so badly to indulge, to implore that his fiance confide in him all the sordid details of their own private affairs. But another little  _ ‘hurk’ _ from Yuuri reminds him that the circumstances are less than ideal, and that these little glimpses aren’t meant for him. Any amount of playing and prying would be at Yuuri’s expense.

And so he passes the wastebin and rubs Yuuri’s back, feels how Yuuri’s muscles tense and relax beneath his fingertips. He stomachs the smell. He draws the washcloth patiently over Yuuri’s chest and shoulders and along the angle of his jaw.

“I’m going to marry him,” Yuuri mumbles, his lips barely parting as a face of vacant serenity blinks, bleary-eyed, in Viktor’s direction.

It’s enough to stop the heart beating in his chest.

“I… we’re going to be dads,” Yuuri continues, his eyes dreamy and glassy as they blink out into oblivion. Suddenly, he gasps, sending droplets flying in all directions as he brings his hands back to his cheeks. “We already  _ are  _ dads! I’ve always been a dad. Well, not always… Vitya was a dad before I even knew it. Vitya is more of a dad than What’s-His-Name ever will be. Phichit. He’s been Eri’s dad since before I was willing to admit it.”

Water splashes down Viktor’s front as Yuuri jabs a dripping-wet finger in his direction.

“I’m going to marry him and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“I would never dare try,” Viktor murmurs. It’s just like Yuuri to catch him off-guard like this. It should be expected by now that in the midst of a turn-up, Yuuri would reach out and grab him by the heart with unrelenting grip. Mouth suddenly dry, heat flaring restlessly under the collar of his shirt, Viktor folds up the washcloth and drapes it carefully over the edge of the tub. “Do you need more time, or are you ready for bed?” he asks.

He wants to ask so much more.

Yuuri nods without making a choice, then scoots forward in the bath in an attempt to curl up on his side.

“G’night.”

“No, no, my love, I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Viktor chuckles, soaking his sleeve in an attempt to save his fiance from drowning. “Come. If you’re ready to sleep, let’s get you in a robe and be off to bed.”

“Nooo, just let me—” Yuuri whines, but Viktor is swift and strong. The water that drips off Yuuri’s body onto his clothes is warm only for a moment before the air cools it unfavorably against his skin. In the end, he can’t even find a robe. But it’s nearing four in the morning anyway; a plush towel and some artful draping are enough to cover up the most important parts for the short trip back to their room.

“Please don’t tell Vitya,” Yuuri moans as Viktor hoists him up and into his arms. “I don’t want him to be embarrassed of me.”

“I assure you that isn’t possible,” Viktor says softly, wincing against the prickling of wet fabric as he sidles carefully out of the bathroom. Phichit is passed out with his feet dangling off the side of the bed, a chocolate-covered strawberry still in his hand.

“No, I always do this,” Yuuri groans into Viktor’s shoulder. “I’m a sloppy bitch.”

Viktor snorts. “I think your bachelor party is the perfect occasion to be a sloppy bitch,” he says.

The hallway is vast and perfectly still in that surreal, twilit way that hotels have in the wee hours of the morning. It amplifies Yuuri’s soft, squeaky snores in his ear, makes everything that isn’t the bundle in his arms seem immaterial and far away. Yuuri just barely moans when Viktor props him over one shoulder to find his key card.

Their hotel room is a welcome sight after an evening of chaos. Viktor doesn’t bother to change; he throws Yuuri down on the bed before casting off everything and falling into place next to him, finally allowing the extreme exhaustion of the night to overtake him.

“...Vitya?”

Yuuri’s voice is small and sweet. When Viktor musters up the strength to roll over and look at him, he’s all dark eyes and bitten lip and cheeks so deeply pink his blush is apparent even in the dark. It takes a bit of shuffling for them to embrace. Once Yuuri has scooted forward enough for Viktor to scoop him up into his arms, the soft comfort of skin against skin against cotton sheets returns, and sleepiness begins to press on Viktor’s chest in earnest.

“My Yuuri,” he whispers, pressing a kiss just above his fiance’s ear.

“Where’s Peach?”

“Back in his room and in bed, just like us.”

Yuuri seems to think on this for a moment before nestling closer into Viktor’s shoulder with a sigh. “Good,” he says definitively. “I think he got too drunk.”

“Mm,” Viktor said around an eagerly-emerging smile.

“Missed you,” Yuuri whispered. “Love you.”

Viktor thinks he returned the sentiment. If he did, it was practically involuntary, lost in the gradual pull of all his senses into an easy and heavy sleep.

The next thing he knows, his alarm is blaring in his ear and his pillow is wet with drool, and Yuuri is moaning miserably against his bicep.

“Noooo…”

The morning is bright and optimistic, the sunlight spilling in through the balcony window as Viktor wills himself to sit up.

His head throbs.

“Dear god…” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose as he squints against the sunlight.

Yuuri agrees with a little grunt.

As much as Viktor wants to just sleep in, to grab Yuuri and a bottle of headache medicine and watch dumb daytime television from their hotel bed, their day does not hold much room for relaxation.

“We have press before the flight,” Viktor groans. “God, what were we thinking?”

“Were we?” Yuuri says, his voice tight and muffled by all the pillows from their king-sized bed, which he’s stacked on top of his head precariously. “Vitya, please don’t let me do this next week.”

“I promise I won’t,” Viktor says, testing his legs but ultimately falling back into the bed at Yuuri’s feet.

“If you let me get this drunk at our wedding, I’ll divorce you,” Yuuri whines, reflux bubbling up in his voice mid-sentence. “Oh. Oh fuck.”

When Yuuri swears, it’s serious. And just like that, he’s up and scrambling for the bathroom, and Viktor, despite the pressure behind his eyes, can’t help but laugh.

“I’ll make sure to update my pre-nuptials, then,” he jokes, but his own stomach warns him that he’s in for some trouble as well, and he quiets, trying with all his might to delay the inevitable.

It’s only  twenty-four hours before they’ll be back in Hasetsu and their days will be filled with preparation and anticipation. Only one day left until they see Eri once more. If it wasn’t for that knowledge, Viktor would probably be skipping press and shopping for later flights.

But the eagerness that accompanies the upcoming week is enough to get him out of bed and ready to face the day.

In one week, his world is going to change forever. Eagerness races in his chest like the rush he feels after a free skate.

Worlds is over. With the season out of his way, all Viktor can see in front of him is the rest of his life. Marriage, fatherhood, and whatever comes beyond that. That would have scared him, even a year ago. Before Yuuri, marriage sounded like work and limits and insecurity. How much things can change in just one year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...posting schedule who?
> 
> Thank you for reading! Remember to subscribe to the series for side-stories and one-shots (like social media fics and smut!).
> 
> Next chapter has tears, giggles, art(!!!), and! A! Wedding!
> 
> See you then!


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